


Samayel's Shorts (Get in them!)

by Samayel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2031867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samayel/pseuds/Samayel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short challenge fics or drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Et Tu?

DISCLAIMER: Warning ! I make no claim to any property of J.K Rowling's, and am in no way profiting by this. I do offer her my sincerest thanks for allowing us this garden of the mind in which we play. Further Warning! This story...and likely any I ever write..are dominated by gay themes and characters. Thats how it is, if this in any way makes you uncomfortable...do not read further.

 

"Et Tu?" by Samayel

 

Divinations. Dull and desperate in Divinations. Sybil Trelawney was on one of her extended lectures about great soothsayers of history and there was no end in sight. One half of the class was nearly comatose with boredom, the other half had enough practice pinching themselves regularly to affect feigned wakefulness. The whole thing dragged on interminably, but eventually the class ended and the students began to sluggishly return to life, pack their things, and shuffle out.

Ron began to vent his frustration. "Bloody 'Ell, Harry. How does she keep prattlin' on like that? I couldn't make any sense of that rot. 'Beware The Ides Of March'...what the hell are Ides, anyway? Who cares what some stuffy old bint said to a dead Muggle from hundreds of years ago?"

Draco Malfoy paused on his way out the door, smug grin intact as always. He favored Ron with a look of amused contempt and snorted in derision. "Ah, Weasley, ever the slow learner. I may not give a tear about Muggles in general, but Empire-builders deserve a little more respect. Hah! I bet if it had been up to you, you'd still be scratching your thick head and wondering whether or not to even cross the Rubicon."

Ron glared. "Piss off, Malfoy. No one cares what..."

Hermione interrupted him with a withering stare of exasperation. "Ron... as much I hate to admit it, Malfoy has a point. You never pay attention, even when there is something to be learned that might be inspiring or helpful. Sometimes you have to render unto Caesar his due."

Malfoy chuckled at the irony of agreeing with Granger about anything. That brought a growl of frustration from Ron. "Hmph! Lot of bollocks! I can't believe you're agreeing with Malfoy! That's like stabbing me in the back! And what's with you two today? Half the stuff you're saying makes no bloody sense."

Harry barely supressed a snicker, then got his poker-face back into place. "Poor Ron. I'm afraid the die is cast. Choose your lot."

Ron finally turned crimson and snapped. "You too, Harry?!" Then stormed out and left while the other students collapsed in the hall laughing until they could scarcely breathe.

FIN


	2. It Always Comes Back To Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry goes back to Hogwarts on the same day every year, for a very special reason. This time someone else is waiting. My response to the September Challenge.

DISCLAIMER: Warning! I make no claim to any property of J.K. Rowling's, and am in no way profiting by this. I do offer her my sincerest thanks for allowing us this garden of the mind in which we play.

It Always Comes Back To Here…By Samayel

 

Harry walked through Hogwarts with the pace of a man burdened by an unpleasant duty. He wasn’t in a hurry, but this journey he’d made every year for over a decade was always bittersweet.

Dumbledore’s portrait was his destination. He’d visited it the day after Dumbledore’s death, every year, for eleven years now. The portrait was as cheerful and kind as ever Dumbledore himself had been, and though Harry enjoyed the fleeting conversations, they were spoiled by the knowledge that he was talking to canvas, paint, and magic, and always would be, because his old friend was long since dead.

He’d had to come early this year. His latest Auror mission had been inexplicably moved forward, and there would be no time for reminiscing while he was in Prague. This time he came by night, hoping to avoid the crowds of gawking students. 

The school would soon be closed for the year, and at this late hour, no one was roaming the halls but Harry. His soft footsteps were the only sound echoing in the drafty halls while he made his way to Dumbledore’s place of honor, just outside the Great Hall. The location was by Dumbledore’s request. He’d wished to remain accessible to students in need of advice. How very like him to care about others even after death.

Harry rounded the corner and found the painting in its usual place…with Draco Malfoy sitting before it, conversing politely with the image of the man his cowardice had gotten killed.

Harry remained silent, simmering with rage at the sight of this abomination, and listened to every word.

“It always comes back to here, sir. I’ve tried everything to make him believe that I’ve changed. It’s been eleven years, and he still hates me as much as when we were here. It hurts to love someone who can’t stand the sight of you. Harry won’t ever believe that I’m a better man than I was a boy, and I’m just tearing myself apart over something I can never have.” 

Malfoy sounded utterly dejected, and he looked older and more tired than his twenty seven years would have suggested. The note of hopelessness, and the topic, left Harry utterly stunned.

“Needn’t worry, Draco,” Dumbledore’s voice interjected. “These things have a way of working themselves out over time, and love, like life, rarely moves on a timetable we choose. Harry is, at heart, a wonderful young man. I’m sure he’ll forgive you someday. It might help if he knew that I forgave you long ago.”

Dumbledore’s image gave a sidelong glance in Harry’s direction, and then a broad wink. Draco turned and gasped, blanching in horror, while Harry remained completely gobsmacked.

Dumbledore smiled at the silent pair. “Ah, Harry! Right on time!” He looked at Harry’s confused expression, then spoke again. “Just because I’m a portrait, doesn’t mean I’ve lost my touch. You two have a lot to talk about, and Harry…do try to listen without judgment. I’ll return a bit later, enjoy!” 

FIN


	3. The Sycophant Hex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a special gift fic for CALAMUS DRACO, who spotted an obscure literary reference in an earlier fic. This fic was based on a two word plot bunny of her choice...Sycophant Hex. In this case the story is told through the eyes of Ron and Hermione, and the H/D aspect is periphal and unfolding. Congrats Calamus!

DISCLAIMER: Warning ! I make no claim to any property of J.K. Rowling's, and am in no way profiting by this. I do offer her my sincerest thanks for allowing us this garden of the mind in which we play. Further Warning! This story...and likely any I ever write…are dominated by gay themes and characters. That's how it is, if this in any way makes you uncomfortable...do not read further.

 

The Sycophant Hex….by Samayel

 

Hermione put her wand away and calmly went back to studying her Advanced Arithmancy text. Ron sat stock still beside her, still not believing what he’d just seen.

“Mione?”

“Hmm?” Her eyes never left the book.

“You just hexed Malfoy.”

“Mmm-hmm.” 

“In the middle of the library.”

“And your point is, Ron?”

“I could have just punched him, love. You didn’t have to hex him. You could have been seen.”

“Ron, I told him that if he called me a Mudblood one more time, I’d hex him. He said it. I did it. You have to be firm about these things or people won’t respect you when you give them fair warning.” Her voice was pleasant and matter of fact, but her tone was like ice and iron.

“He’s acting kind of…well, weird.”

Hermione’s head was still planted directly above her textbook. A tiny half smile formed at the corner of her mouth. “So what exactly is he doing?” 

“He’s on his hands and knees. I think he’s begging Harry for forgiveness. I’m pretty sure he’s crying, too.” Ron couldn’t turn his head away from the scene. It was like a train wreck; horrifying to behold, but impossible to ignore.

The corners of Hermione’s lips twitched. “Keep talking. Tell me how it goes.”

“Harry’s a little freaked out, but he’s taking it in stride. Whoa! Malfoy just kissed Harry’s trainers! He’s holding onto Harry’s leg like Percy on Fudge! What the hell was that hex you used!”

“It’s called the Sycophant Hex. I thought it was appropriate. I just didn’t realize he felt so apologetic to Harry.” Hermione’s smile was getting wider.

“What do you mean? He’s under a spell to act that way…you mean he’s got a choice?”

“Sort of. The spell only works when you get near the person you most admire, then you completely abase yourself in front of them. If he really hated Harry, he wouldn’t be acting that way. Ironic, don’t you think?”

“Ummm…Mione?”

“He’s gone under the desk. I think he’s polishing Harry’s shoes!”

Hermione finally turned her head to look. “Actually, it’s not Harry’s shoes he’s polishing right now. I’m surprised they had the presence of mind to shift their robes about to cover that.” Cheshire cats couldn’t have smiled wider than Hermione at that moment.

“Eewwww! ‘Mione! Take the spell off, Harry doesn’t deserve this! This is soo wrong!” Ron was turning a vague shade of green.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Ron. Harry deserved this a long time ago. I’m surprised he managed to be a perfect gentleman about this for so long.”

“Bloody hell! What about when the hex wears off?”

“Easy. Malfoy wakes up tomorrow and remembers how much he liked it. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be there right now, spell or no spell. Judging by the fact that he lasted slightly less than three minutes before he was face down in Harry’s lap, he must have been privately gagging for it for years! Also, now he knows better than to use the word Mudblood within earshot of me again. If he gives me as much as a second of grief, I’ll just remind him of the much better use he can put his mouth to.”

“’Mione?” Ron was looking at her in awe.

“Yes, Ron?” She was smiling innocence incarnate.

“Sometimes you scare me way more than You-Know-Who.”

“That’s alright. At least I’m on your side.” She arched an eyebrow tellingly. “Assuming you don’t seriously piss me off.”

And Ron Weasley knew true fear for the first time.

 

FIN


	4. Victory Is Mine!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco uses an old holiday to break down Harry's stubborn resistance once and for all! My response to the May 'No Pants Day' challenge!

DISCLAIMER: Warning! I make no claim to any property of J.K. Rowling's, and am in no way profiting by this. I do offer her my sincerest thanks for allowing us this garden of the mind in which we play. 

 

Victory Is Mine!

 

"Mark my words, Potter. I know you want me, and no matter what it takes, I will make you mine!"

They had been bold words at the time, but for all the good they'd done, he might as well have said, 'Rot in hell, Scarface!' Potter had just backed away, stuttering and crimson...like usual. That incident had started their seventh year. It had been six long, cruel months since.

Draco had made his peace with wanting Potter over the summer, and, being no one's fool, he knew Potter wanted him. The stubborn, arse-stupid, bespectacled prat just wouldn't cave and admit it. Drastic measures were called for!

No Pants Day was a treasured tradition, and most people had a favorite pair of shorts to wear for the day. Harry was no exception. His red and gold flannel boxers, with enchanted lions roaring and standing rampant, would make their yearly appearance today.

Breakfast was fun, with jubilant, laughing, and occasionally embarrassed students everywhere. Harry scanned the room, trying to stay casual, and there was no Draco in sight. Relieved, yet oddly disappointed, he took his seat and piled in to the potatoes and sausages. Ten minutes later, he realized everyone, save Draco, was present.

A dark cloaked figure entered the hall. Silence fell as they waited for the black wrapped figure to make a move.

Harry watched raptly as the black slid to the floor, revealing Draco Malfoy in a short cropped black T-shirt that exposed a soft, yet taut expanse of abdomen...and a black V-thong that hung perfectly across sculpted hip bones. Harry wanted to pull his eyes away, but this was more compelling than the Imperius Curse ever was!

Draco canted one hip ever so slightly, and then, with exaggerated grace, bent down to gather his fallen cloak, all the while with grey eyes calmly locked on Harry's bulging green ones. At last, he stood, turned, and sauntered out of the hall with a sensual magnificence that would have made a panther jealous.

The thong was backless. Cunning tailoring left his incredibly pert, pale and smooth bum easily visible in all its glory.

Harry almost upended the Gryffindor table on his way out of the room.

Draco heard the clatter of silverware and desperately hurried feet behind him in the hall. He smiled to himself as he inwardly rejoiced, 'Victory is mine!'


	5. What Was I Supposed To Do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Response to the Hex Files June challenge. Draco's POV during the flight from Hogwarts, following Snape on the way out, Harry Potter on their heels.

DISCLAIMER: Warning ! I make no claim to any property of J.K. Rowling's, and am in no way profiting by this. I do offer her my sincerest thanks for allowing us this garden of the mind in which we play. Further Warning! This story...and likely any I ever write…are dominated by gay themes and characters. That's how it is, if this in any way makes you uncomfortable...do not read further.

 

What Was I Supposed To Do? ………by Samayel

 

My life is over.

I had a good one. At least most people would have thought so. They all thought it was perfect. Rich, popular and from a family with power of every kind that counts. None of them knew the price that came with those things. None of my friends, anyway.

Potter knew. He was the only one who even looked under the surface. He hated me. Or at least I thought he did. He thought I didn’t know he was there. He thought I didn’t hear those steps, or the little hiss of breath. Even if he did hate me, he was the only one who ever saw me cry. That’s something isn’t it?

What was I supposed to do? My life is over. I feel numb, and Snape jerks my arm harder, pulling me along after him. My feet move, but my heart is dead. The halls are just a blur to me.

My family wanted this for me. No one offends the Dark Lord and walks away free and clear. I had to do it! One Malfoy already failed him, can you imagine what he’d do to another who drew his ire? I can. I wish I couldn’t, but I can.

We’re outdoors. The castle behind us, the end of the wards ahead. I wish I’d died. What was I supposed to do? When I see the shadow of Potter behind us, my face burns. Why do I want to scream for help? Who would listen?

I was so close. I believed him. Dumbledore would have tried. I know he would have. I wanted it so badly…to be safe, to not live with fear gnawing its way through me like a cancer. I was almost safe. I could have been happy someday. My life is over.

Snape’s hand feels like a vice on my wrist, makes my whole arm scream when he yanks it as we run. He really did it. He killed Dumbledore. He did the task I was set to, signed my death warrant, and now he’s carrying me along to my own funeral. 

I could run. Pull free and go back. But to where? Who’d have me now? I wish he’d killed me instead of the Headmaster. I want to reach my hand out, but why would he take it now?

That was ward-fire that crackled across my skin. We’re free of Hogwarts boundaries. Snape jerks us to a halt, never letting go. 

I see him, running, wild haired and with blazing eyes. He looks like God, like his anger is a scale that could measure the whole world…and find it wanting. Potter. For the first time, I know he’s going to win.

What was I supposed to do? Crawl begging for help? Give myself to the Ministry and its tender mercies? Tears are burning trails on my cheeks and I just can’t care anymore.

I feel the crackle of Apparition, and the last thing I think of is what I’ve lost. What I have left isn’t worth keeping anymore, and that will be taken from me soon enough. My life is over.

What was I supposed to do?

 

FIN


End file.
